


Future Mending

by Flamebyrd



Category: Highlander: The Series, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Crossover, Gen, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5111501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flamebyrd/pseuds/Flamebyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Running away to a tropical island is not a unique idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Mending

**Author's Note:**

> For my **crossover** square in Trope Bingo Round 5.

Tropical rain was only a marginal improvement on Seacouver's endless cool drizzle, but it was an improvement. At least it wasn't cold. Methos walked under the shelter of his umbrella, shoes squelching in the rain.

He almost walked straight past the man lying under a tree, curled into a tight ball with his hands wrapped around his knees. His brain chose to fill him in on what he saw a few paces later, and the medical instincts he'd never managed to eradicate made him turn back for a second look.

The man was shivering, eyes closed. He was pale and damp, and only getting damper under the scant shelter of the tree.

Methos rubbed the bridge of his nose. Bracing for trouble, he walked over and knelt next to the man. "Hey," he said. When there was no response, he leaned over to tap the man on his bare shoulder, just enough to get his attention.

The man's eyes flew open and he recoiled back into the tree.

"Are you all right? Do you need a hospital?" asked Methos, at his most harmless.

"No... hospital," the man wheezed.

That was unusual enough to make Methos raise an involuntary brow.

"No insurance," the man clarified.

Methos took a closer look. If this man was an illegal visitor to the island, all he had to his name was a pair of ragged trousers.

"I'm a doctor," Methos lied. "You're sick, you can't stay out here in the rain."

"Not sick," the man corrected. He closed his eyes, and took several seconds to reopen them. "Just tired."

Methos thought for a moment about what he brought with him. Nothing he couldn't spare if this went sour. "Then have I got a deal for you," he said. "A dry bed in the finest of luxury beach shacks."

The man's eyes flickered open again, and he squinted at Methos as if trying to bring him into focus. "Who are you?"

"The man whose tree you are currently dying under," said Methos.

The man struggled to sit up. "I'm sorry. I'll get out of your way."

"You're coming inside," said Methos. "You can get out of my way when you look a little less like you're dying."

The man snorted.

"I could throw in two square meals to sweeten the deal," said Methos.

The man drew his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead against them. Methos saw his chest rise and fall as he drew shaky breaths.

It was wet and Methos's ankles were soaked. He was about to give up and return to the dubious dry comfort of his cabin when the man spoke again. "All right. I'll come."

Methos wondered if it was the food that did it. He knew what it was like to be hungry.

\--

Bruce woke in an unfamiliar bed in unfamiliar clothes. Not unusual for the past decade, although rarer in the last few years. He rubbed at his gritty eyes and tried to retrieve anything useful from his abused memory.

Right. Somewhere in the tropics. Some well-meaning soul who would hopefully not come to regret this.

He wondered if he should claim a hangover. It was usually the easiest explanation.

"I can offer you tea or coffee," called his rescuer. His accent was odd, vaguely English but Bruce couldn't place it. "The coffee is instant."

"Tea," Bruce said. He picked up a robe from beside the bed and pulled it on. Every muscle screamed at him in protest. "Thank you."

The man entered a few minutes later, mug in hand, and looked him up and down. "Are you sure you don't want a hospital?"

"I'm fine. It's just, uh, a hangover."

His host's eyebrows rose. "You weren't drunk last night."

Damnit. "Uh," he said. "Wasn't I?" He took the tea and breathed the steam for a moment. "Thank you for helping me. You, um, probably shouldn't tell anybody about me, though. I'll leave as soon as I can."

"Your pants are still drying," said his host. He had his head slightly cocked, studying Bruce thoughtfully. "And you don't look ready to get out of bed yet, let alone walk outside. Barefoot. Shirtless."

Bruce slumped back into the pillows.

"What are you running from?"

"Nothing you want to get yourself involved with," said Bruce.

"Oh, believe me, I have no intention of getting myself involved," said his host. "But I like to know what risks I'm taking."

He stared at his hands for a moment. They were shaking, the tiniest amount. "I was - am - a scientist." He fell silent again, trying to choose his words carefully.

"Oh? The last time I studied science it was still considered part of philosophy."

Bruce blinked slowly. "That was... a very long time ago."

A beat. "It's called hyperbole."

 _That was a lie_. The thought bubbled up out of nowhere. Bruce shook his head, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being lied to.

"Last time I checked being a scientist wasn't illegal," prompted his host.

Bruce sighed. "I created a weapon, a terrible weapon. The people hunting me want that weapon. You don't want to attract their attention."

His host looked at him like he was evaluating whether or not Bruce was crazy. "Well, if we're going to eat anything that isn't boiled grains I need to go shopping. Is there anybody you trust you'd like me to contact while I'm in town?"

Bruce shook his head. "There was someone, but... it turned out she wanted the weapon more than me."

He found himself on the end of another of those measuring gazes. "There's nothing valuable here to steal, so I wouldn't bother. Just get some more rest."

Bruce lay in bed for a long time before other biological needs made his decision for him. He found the ensuite easily enough. His skin felt rough with grit and his hair was stiff with salt. After a moment's consideration, he took a shower.

He got dressed in the same clothes again and wandered - slowly - into the rest of the house. His host's reading taste was eclectic, to say the least. Classics and pulp fiction nestled together in haphazard piles. The music collection was just as confused.

He settled himself on the couch and picked up the first book from the pile.

\--

Methos left the door unlocked and took the stairs to the beach. The sun was beating down, bright and clear, but he knew the clouds would be rolling in again soon.

He left his sandals at the gate and padded barefoot over the sand. The sand hadn't had enough time to dry out and clung to his feet.

Methos found what he was looking for a little up the beach and snapped a few photos with his phone. Modern technology. Wonderful stuff. He walked back up the beach towards the unkempt patch of forest that bordered his shack and took a few more pictures.

He pocketed the phone and retrieved his sandals. He hadn't been lying. It wasn't worth saving time shopping more than a couple of days ahead, and his cupboards were bare of all but the most basic staples.

He returned an hour or so later with a decent haul of fresh local fruit, vegetables and seafood.

His guest had made it as far as the couch before giving up. His eyes fluttered open as Methos entered.

Methos held up his shopping bags and ducked into the kitchen to store their contents.

"I took a walk along the beach earlier," he called.

When he walked into what passed for the living room he found his guest walking out the door.

"I was curious because you talked like the weapon was with you," said Methos, standing in the doorway. "Which is true, I suppose, although not in the way I was thinking."

His guest slowed his steps, but he didn't turn.

"I'm not going to stop you from leaving," said Methos. "But if you'd rather talk, you can come back." He turned and walked back inside.

It was several minutes before his guest rejoined him.

"What did you see on the beach?" asked his guest, his voice low.

"Footprints, or what was left of them. Drag marks, like something pulled itself along the beach and then stood. At first I thought it was a robot, a suit of armour or something. But I wasn't sure how you could hide something that large in the forest."

"I'm not Iron Man," snorted his guest.

"No," said Methos. "But you are an Avenger." He did watch the news. Sometimes.

"Not anymore," said his guest. "Why do you want to help me?"

That was a very good question. "Perhaps you remind me of somebody."

"I find that hard to believe."

Ah, children. So convinced that they were unique and nobody could ever understand their problems. "Let me guess. You want somebody to tell you how to live with what you've done. You want redemption."

His guest's eyes met his, startled.

"And I have an easy answer for you. The way to live with what you've done? Keep living."

His guest snorted. "That's not a problem for me."

Methos paused. He wondered what it might be like to be just... unable to die. No promise of an out. Just the promise of endless days ahead.

He shivered.

\--

Bruce rubbed at his eyes again. Why couldn't he have been rescued by somebody a little less observant? A little less... insightful.

"I'm not going to tell you not to run," said his host. "That would be ironic, as you can probably guess." He shrugged his arms wide.

Bruce glanced around the bare shack again and had to concede the point. "What are you running from?"

"The future," said his host.

"Not the past?"

"The past is over. You can't escape the past, all you can do is hide it for a while. The future, though. That you can delay."

"I try not to think about the future," said Bruce. "I've made that mistake before."

His host stared at him for a long moment, and he wondered if he hadn't been as subtle as he'd intended.

Sometimes it felt like the last decade had been one long string of kind strangers. Sometimes he was in and out of their lives in a brief flash, sometimes he left them that much worse off. He was grateful for them, every one.

This one was by far the strangest. He had neither asked for nor offered a name. He was not afraid, even after he admitted that he knew who Bruce was. If anything, he seemed to find the idea of harbouring a disgraced (dangerous, unpredictable) superhero amusing.

"Are you planning to leave? You still don't have any shoes," his host reminded him.

This was, unfortunately, a very good point. In his pants, assuming his host hadn't disposed of them, he had an emergency kit with a (fake) ID, some US cash and a pre-paid credit card. The ID and credit card would both be traceable.

If SHIELD located him, would they try to bring him in? Or would they just monitor him? How far could he trust them?

Did he really want to just disappear? Was he that petty?

How much could he trust the person who betrayed him? Quite a lot, it turned out.

"Something on your mind?"

"Just trying to figure out exactly how much trouble I'm in."

"And?"

"Will you show me into town? I need to buy shoes."


End file.
